Drinkwater looked at the chartlet of The Sound. The ramparts of Cronbourg were clearly marked together with the arcs of fire of the batteries and a note that their range was no more than one and a half miles. The Sound was two and a half miles wide and the fleet could not hope to pass unscathed if they received fire from both Helsingborg and Cronbourg.
Drinkwater was familiar with the current. It had frustrated them already, usually running to the north but influenced by the wind with little tidal effect. The Disken shoal formed a middle ground but should not present any problem to the fleet. It was the guns of Cronbourg that would do the damage, those and the Swedish cannon on the opposite shore.
Drinkwater went on deck before turning in. It was bitterly cold again with a thin layer of high cloud: Trussel was on deck.
'All quiet, Mr Trussel?'
'Aye sir, like the grave.'
'Moonrise is about two-fifteen and the almanac indicates an eclipse.'
'Ah, I'd better warn the people, there's plenty of them as still believes in witchcraft and the like.'
'As you like, Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater thought of his own obsession with Hortense Santhonax and wondered if there were not something in old wives' tales. There were times when a lonely man might consider himself under a spell. He thought, too, of Edward, and where he might be this night. Trussel recalled him.
'To speak the truth, Mr Drinkwater, I'd believe any omen if it meant making some progress. This is an interminable business, wouldn't you say?'
'Aye, Mr Trussel, and the Danes have been well able to observe every one of our manoeuvres.'
'And doubtless form a poor opinion of 'em, what with all the shilly shallying. I've never seen so much coming and going even when the Grand Fleet lay at St Helen's. Why your little boat-trip t'other morning went unremarked by anyone.'
The point of Trussel's chat emerged and Drinkwater smiled.
'Indeed, Mr Trussel, that was the point of it.'
'The point of it, sir…?' said Trussell vaguely.
'Come, what is the rumour in the ship, eh? Ain't it that the mysterious fellow we took aboard at Yarmouth is, in truth, a spy?'
'Aye, sir. That's what scuttlebutt says, but I don't always hold that scuttlebutt's accurate.'
'But in this case it is, Mr Trussel, in this case it most certainly is. Good night to you…'
In his coffin-like cot Mr Jex lay unsleeping. He felt a growing sense of unease at the quickening pace of events. The fruitless comings and goings of the last week, the weary handling of ground tackle and sails had scarcely affected him since he did no special duty at such times. True the bad weather had confined him sick and miserable in his cabin but he had at least a measure of satisfaction in abusing and belabouring his steward, a miserable, cowed man who was loved by no-one. But even Jex had overcome his sickness eventually and the prolonged periods at anchor had pacified his internal disquiet. Like his Commander-in-Chief, Jex did not wish to pass the fortress at Cronbourg, but whereas Parker was merely excessively cautious, Jex was a coward. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate upon his columns of figures, even when they showed a rise in the fortunes of Hector Jex to the extent of yet wiping out the amount extorted by Lieutenant Drinkwater. Instead he found unbidden images of mutilated bodies entering his mind; of bloody decks strewn with limbless corpses, of the surgeon's tubs filled with arms and legs.
Lieutenant Rogers's bloodthirsty yarns lost nothing in the telling and Jex's disgrace in the action with the luggers had left him a prey to the cruel and merciless wit of his brother officers. Rogers's lack of either tact or compassion only fuelled the constant references to Jex's cowardice so that the purser conceived a hatred for the first lieutenant that began to exceed that he already felt for his commander.
As for the latter, Jex had felt a hopelessness at having been outmanoeuvred yet again by Mr Drinkwater. The ostentatious departure of Waters from the ship had seemed to him to prove the accuracy of Drinkwater's assertions about the mysterious landsman. All Jex could do was hope to determine whether or not a real murder had taken place at Newmarket, and whether or not the Marquis de la Roche-Jagu really existed. He could not himself conceive that it would have been reported without it being known in Newmarket whether or not the event had actually taken place. And it was this desire to live long enough to prove the arrogant Mr Drinkwater wrong that was constantly undermined by the growing horror of premature death.
Even as he lay there, a deck below the anchor watch who marvelled at the lunar eclipse, he saw himself dead; torn apart by cannon shot, his bowels spilling from his paunch.
Drinkwater stood in the sunshine and looked round the deck. He had done all he could to move Virago forward to a position where she might assist the seven bomb vessels if they required it, yet remain out of range of the guns of Cronbourg with her vulnerable cargo of explosives and combustibles.
He looked beyond the masts of the bomb vessels at their target. Anchored in a line, just outside the known arc of fire of the Danish guns they were preparing to bombard the castle.
Despite the fact that he had already trodden the soil of Denmark, his preoccupation with Edward's plight had so far blinded him to a full realisation of the enemy's country. To date he had seen it as a series of landmarks to take bearings of, a flat coast with hidden, offshore dangers and a population amply warned of their approach. This morning he realised the alien nature of it. Weighing at daylight the bombs with the battleship Edgar and the frigate Blanche had taken up the positions attempted the previous day. The castle of Cronbourg loomed before them, an edifice of unusual aspect to English eyes, used to the towers of the Norman French. The redbrick walls, towers and cupolas with their bright green copper roofs had a fantastic, even fairy-like quality that seemed at first to totally disarm Sir Hyde Parker's fears.
But even as they let their anchors go at six in the morning of March 30th the Danish flag was hoisted in the north westerly breeze that set fair for the passage of The Sound. The white cross on a red, swallow-tail ground had the lick of a dragon's tongue about it, as it floated above the fortress, over the roofs of the town of Elsinore.
The men had breakfasted at their stations and Lettsom had come on deck to see for himself the progress of the fleet. Easton was pointing out the landmarks.
'The town is Helsingor, Mr Lettsom, which we call Elsinore, the castle is called Cronbourg, or Cronenbourg on some charts.'
'Then that is Hamlet's castle, eh? Is that so Mr Drinkwater?'
'I suppose it is, Mr Lettsom.'
'And they tell me you had an eclipse last night.'
'I think 'twas the moon that had an eclipse. Happily it had no effect upon us.'
'Quite so, sir.' Lettsom paused for a moment. '"The moist star, upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse…" Hamlet, gentlemen, Act One…'
'Sick to doomsday with anchoring more like, Bones,' put in Rogers.
Lettsom ignored the first lieutenant and produced another quotation: '"But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill…" '
'But it ain't high, Mr Lettsom, thus proving Shakespeare did not know the lie of the land hereabouts.'
'True, sir, but there's such a thing as poetic licence. And here, if not the dawn, is Mr Jex.'
The assembled officers laughed as the purser came on deck, and the surgeon, in fine form now he had the attention of all, continued his thespian act.
'Good morning Mr Jex,' he said, then added darkly, '"here is a beast that wants discourse of reason".'
Bewildered by the laughter, yet conscious that he was the cause of it, Jex looked sullenly round.
'"A dull and muddy-metalled rascal", eh, Mr Jex?' Even Lettsom himself was scarce able to refrain from laughter and Jex was roused to real anger.
'Do you mind your manners, Mr Lettsom,' he snarled, 'I've given you no cause to abuse me.'
'"Use every man after his desert and who would 'scape whipping?"'
&nbs
p; 'Why,' laughed Rogers unwilling to let Lettsom have all the fun, 'both you and your eighth man would qualify there, Mr Jex…' Laughter spread along the deck among the seamen who well understood the allusion to Jex's corruption.
'Aye, "be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny."'
'Hold your God damn tongue…' burst out Jex, the colour mounting to his face at this public humiliation.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' Drinkwater temporised, 'I beg you to desist… Mr Jex, I assure you the surgeon meant no offence but merely wished to air his knowledge of the Bard. I am by no means persuaded his powers of recall are accurate…'
'Sir!' protested Lettsom but Drinkwater called their attention to the fleet.
'Let us see whether aught is rotten in the state of Denmark shall we?'
'Mr Drinkwater, you o'erwhelm the powers of my muse,' grinned Lettsom, 'I shall betake myself to my cockpit and sulk like Achilles in his tent.'
The surgeon and purser were instantly forgotten as glasses were lifted to watch the fleet weigh from the anchorage and begin the approach to Copenhagen through the sound.
Led by Monarch, the foremost ship of Lord Nelson's division, the ships of the line stood south eastwards in brilliant sunshine. It presented a magnificent spectacle to the men watching from the huddle of bomb ships that waited eagerly to play their part in the drama of the day. The wind had settled to a fine breeze from the north north westward, as Monarch approached Cronbourg. They could see her topmen racing aloft to shake out the topgallants from their stoppings.
'London's signalling, sir, "General bombs, commence the bombardment".'
'Thank you, Mr Easton. Mr Rogers, have the crews in the boats ready to render assistance, and Mr Tumilty, perhaps you will give us the benefit of your opinion in the action.'
'I shall be delighted, Nat'aniel. Mark Zebra well, I hear she took a pounding on the reef t'other day and, though I believe her to be well built, if Bobbie Lawson overloads his mortars I think she may be in trouble.'
'Is Captain Lawson likely to over-charge his mortars, Tom?'
'To win the five guineas I wagered that he couldn't sustain one round a minute for more than half an hour he may become a mite careless, Nat'aniel, so he may…'
Drinkwater laughed just as the first bomb fired. 'That's Explosion,' snapped Tumilty, suddenly concentrating. The concussion rolled over the water towards them as they saw Explosion's waist billow clouds of smoke.
'She certainly lives up to her name.'
'They'll remark the fall of shot before anyone else fires,' said Tumilty informatively. They could see the arc of the shell reach its apogee and then they were distracted as the batteries at Cronbourg opened a rolling fire. For a moment Monarch's hull disappeared behind a seething welter of splashes, then behind the smoke of her own discharge as first she, and then successive ships astern returned the fire of the castle. It was six forty-five in the morning.
For the next hour the air was rent by the explosions of the guns. The deep rolling of British broadsides was answered by the heavy fire from Cronbourg. Nearer, the powerful and thunderous bark of the ten- and thirteen-inch mortars enveloped the lower masts of the bomb vessels in heavy clouds of smoke. No signals came from the bombs and the Viragos were compelled to stand idle, but it afforded them a rare and memorable sight.
'No fire from the Swedes, sir,' said Rogers, 'Monarch's inclining to their side of the channel.'
Parker's centre division was abeam of them now, all the ships setting their topgallants but keeping their main courses in the bunt-lines so as to hamper neither the gunnery nor the conning of the battlefleet through The Sound.
'Tis a fine sight, Nat'aniel,' said Tumilty, 'at moments like this one is almost persuaded that war is a glorious thing.'
'Sadly, Tom, that is indeed true. See the Elephant, the two-decker with the blue flag at her foremasthead, that's Nelson's flagship, see how he holds his fire. That's the contempt of Old England for you, by God!'
'If that's war on the English style, wait until you see that Irish version, by Jesus,' Tumilty grinned happily, ''Tis not your cold contempt, but your hot-tempered fury that puts the enemy to flight…'
They both laughed. 'There goes the old Isis. See Mr Q, that is quite possibly the last time you'll see a fifty in the line of battle… included here for her shallow draught I imagine.'
Beyond the battleships, on the Swedish side of The Sound the smaller vessels were under way. The gun-brigs and the frigates towing the flat-boats, the sloops and the fire-ships Otter and Zephyr, the tenders and cutters all stood southward, sheltered by the rear division of Admiral Graves. Only Blanche and Edgar remained to cover the bomb vessels and at fifteen minutes to eight the rear repeating frigate hoisted a string of bunting.
'Jamaica signalling, sir, "Repeated from flag, bombs to cease fire and approach the admiral".' Mr Quilhampton closed the signal book.
'That's a touch of the naval Irish, Mr Tumilty,' said Rogers nudging the artillery officer. 'It means Parker wants us to play chase.'
'Is that a fact, Mr Rogers,' said Tumilty calling his noncommissioned officer to the break of the poop while Drinkwater and Rogers bawled orders through their trumpets to get Virago under way.
The order was obeyed with alacrity. Topmen raced aloft to shake out the topsails while the fo'c's'le party set to with their spikes at the windlass. At the fiferails there was much heaving as sheets were belayed and halliards manned.
'Now Hite,' asked Tumilty, leaning over the rail and addressing the bombardier who had a watch and tablet in his hands, 'what did you make it?'
'Mr Lawson was engaged for thirty-seven minutes, sir, both mortars in use and by my reckoning he threw forty-one shells…'
Tumilty whistled. 'Phew, he must have been working them poor artillerymen like devils, eh Hite?'
'Yes sir.'
'An' I've lost five guineas, devil take it!'
'You've lost your wager then?' asked Drinkwater as he strode forward to get a better view of the fo'c's'le party.
'To be sure an' I have.'
'You look damned cheerful about it.'
'An' why shouldn't I look cheerful? An' why shouldn't you look cheerful seeing as how you stand to benefit from it.'
'Me? Hoist away there, Mr Q. Lively there with the cat-tackle, Mr Matchett. Steer south east, Mr Easton… how should I be delighted in your misfortune, Tom?'
'Well I'll put up another five that says Zebra will be unfit for the next bombardment and Virago will stand in the line.'
Drinkwater looked curiously at the little Irishman before turning his attention again to getting Virago under way and taking station in the rear of the line of bomb vessels.
Standing across to the Swedish side the squat little ships left the Danish shore as the frustrated guns of Cronbourg fell silent.
By nine o'clock they were clear of The Narrows and at noon anchored with the rest of the fleet off the island of Hven.
'I wonder what damage the mortars did, Tom.'
Tumilty shrugged.
''Tis not what execution they did to Elsinore or Cronbourg that should interest you, Nat'aniel, but what damage they did to Zebra.'
Chapter Fifteen
Copenhagen Road
30 March-1 April 1801
'Christ, but it's bloody cold again,' Rogers stamped upon the deck and his breath was steaming in the chilling air. It was not yet dark but the brief warmth of the sun had long gone. Pancakes of ice floated slowly past the ship and Lettsom, invigorated by the air's freshness after a day spent below and well muffled in sheepskins, watched curiously from the rail.
'I don't think I can stand much more of this blasted idling in ignorance Lettsom, stap me if I can!'
'Happen you have little choice,' answered Lettsom straightening up.
'No,' growled Rogers with angry resentment.
'I suppose you want to know what those two ships learnt…'
'Yes, Amazon and Cruizer went forward with the lugger Lark; her mas
ter's familiar with the approaches to Copenhagen. Someone said they thought Nelson was in the lugger but…' he shrugged resignedly. 'Bollocks to them; I suppose they'll tell us in good time when they want us to get shot.'
'How is our commander taking the delay, he seems an active man?'
'Drinkwater? He's a strange cove. He was promoted in '99 but because of some damned administrative mix-up, he lost the commission. He took it blasted well; if it'd been me I'd have made an unholy bloody row about it.'
'I don't doubt it,' said Lettsom drily, 'I think our Mr Drinkwater something of a stoic, though an oddity too. What d'you make of this spy business?'
Rogers shrugged. 'What is there to make of it? As I said Drinkwater's a strange cove. Been mixed up in the business since before the war; ask Tregembo if you want to know about our commander. Lying old buzzard will tell you tales as tall as the main truck; about the young midshipman who slit the gizzard of some Frog and took the m'sieur's sword for his pains, or retook an American prize after her crew over-powered the prize crew. All in all it's a bloody mystery why our Nathaniel ain't commanding this bloody expedition against the festering Tsar… Let's face it, Bones, he couldn't make a worse mess of it than that old fool Parker and he's got Lord Nelson to prod his reluctant arse for him.'
'True, Mr Rogers, but it does seem that Mr Drinkwater was specially selected for his discretion in landing this spy fellow. I'd say he'd achieved that with a fair degree of success, wouldn't you?'
'Yes, I suppose… hey, what's that going on alongside Cruizer?' Rogers whipped the night-glass from its rack and stared hard at the grey shape of the brig half a mile away and partially hidden from them behind Blanche. 'By God, she's getting under way!'
Lettsom stared into the gathering darkness and had to confess he could see nothing remarkable.
'There man, are you blind? Damned good surgeon you'll make if you can't see a bloody brig getting under way with her boats alongside.'
The Bomb Vessel nd-4 Page 16
